


Alfira's Guide to Traveling with Absolute Fuck Ups

by xxAphrodite



Category: Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Expect Spoilers and Speculation, M/M, Series of One Shots, Vampire Bites, Wizard Besties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxAphrodite/pseuds/xxAphrodite
Summary: A series of one-shots to fill in some things I've been thinking about following a few runs of Baldur's Gate.Spoilers encompass various decisions made throughout Early Access, specifically regarding character backstories but also like, all around. Including datamined material because I'm impatient af. Be warned!
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

Seraphiel is bouncing ideas off his usual intellectual entertainment when he realizes how dangerous a thing it was to dream of something so… _enticing_ , as Astarion put it.

Sarcastically.

Which is the problem.

He’s enjoying his usual conversations by the fire with Gale, pouring over spell scrolls and tweaking recipes for future nights ahead. Or, he was. He can’t stop twitching, stop fretting. Something is wrong, and not in the way that every terribly masked lie Wyll provides him is wrong. Astarion didn’t want to say anything, but he _did_ , and because he did Seraphiel can’t escape the reality that everyone was treated to some form of seduction. For Astarion, that was Cazador.

“Phi you’ve entirely lost the thread we’ve been weaving. Are you alright?”

Seraphiel blinks. It’s hard to share his thoughts with Shadowheart creeping through every insecurity like she’s the godsdamn tadpole. Is she using it to read him? Does she feel what he feels--better in just about every way? Refreshed? He hasn’t thought to ask. She’s cold every time he opens his mouth, fumbling quietly with some puzzlebox and tearing him apart at every available opportunity. He thought, when they first met, that their mutual heritage would be something to bond them. It didn’t.

Seraphiel shakes his head and looks to the fire. “You said something this morning.”

“I did,” Gale replies, amusement evident in his tone.

“About the dream.”

“That I did.” This time Gale sounds less amused, more concerned. Seraphiel sets aside his papers and haphazardly arranges them where he found them. He nearly jumps when Gale’s hand curls over his shoulder.

Gods, Shadowheart’s gaze is burning into the back of his skull. Or maybe it’s Astarion. That’s significantly worse if true.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Seraphiel presses his tongue into his cheek. The only person he told about the details of his dream was Astarion. The guilt that consumed him when he found out his strange dream of an alluring man was not what Astarion got has eaten him for the better part of the day. But it’s clicking now. Seraphiel wishes it wasn’t.

“You said something earlier, about the dreams being too true. Something unreal. Something tempting.”

“Tantalizing, I think is the word I used,” Gale says. His hand slips from Seraphiel’s shoulders but the promise of comfort lingers. It’s nice. Sometimes this camp feels like a pack of gnolls waiting to tear him apart. Never Gale. Gale just might literally implode and take everyone with him.

Seraphiel caves to his concerns and looks for a flash of white hair in the dim light. Astarion is standing, bottle of wine in hand, seemingly uninterested. He’s terrible at seeming uninterested.

“And you and I essentially confirmed we felt the same things,” Serpahiel continues.

“Yes. I spoke with Shadowheart since I know you won’t and she said the same. Attraction. Power.”

Seraphiel shudders when he exhales. It’s obvious enough to cause Gale to lean forward, brows creased with concern.

“You mustn’t give in.”

“That’s not--” Seraphiel stands before he can say any more. He offers a passing glance to Astarion, nothing more than a suggestion, and then tangles his fingers into thick waves of hair to settle his discomforts. His hair comes loose from the already loose tie he’d set it in. “I need a minute.”

“You shouldn’t stray too far. Woods are still dangerous even if you’ve seen to the goblin leaders.”

Astarion sinks into the shadows with a grace he’s definitely familiar with. Seraphiel offers a twitch of his lips to Shadowheart when her gaze trails from where their resident vampire had once been to where Seraphiel currently is, and then takes off without another word.

#

“We need to talk.”

Those words are dreadful from Seraphiel’s lips, but he has to speak them. He winces in preparation for the worst; no more _darling_ , no more _hello lover_ , no more casual flirtation when they really have more important things to be doing. He’ll lose it all when he fucks this up.

“Sure, we can talk. But first--may I?”

Seraphiel sighs and gets comfortable against the tree behind him, lax enough to give Astarion plenty of room to slip his fingers on Seraphiel’s hips and bare his fangs. There’s a tremor there. It’s unsettling. Something _is_ wrong, despite all the outward appearances. Astarion’s been shaken all day.

“Everyone dreamt of something they desire. I know opening up was hard and I’m not looking to accuse you of anything. It’s just an observation.”

Astarion’s teeth are cold. His hands would be, too, if Seraphiel could feel them. They tighten against the robes and then disappear between one blink and the next, just like the rest of him. The peer of vibrant red is dulled by the darkness that surrounds them.

“ _What_ do you think you’re implying?”

“Nothing,” Seraphiel says. “I mean--a lot, obviously, I know what I’m implying by saying that, but that’s not why I’m saying it.”

“I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“Astarion--”

The piercing pain of Astarion’s fangs are familiar, as is the dizzying numbness that follows when his body decides to obey. Astarion killed him last time and could very well do it again, from the way he’s acting. This time they’re alone. Seraphiel’s been hoarding resurrection scrolls following Gale’s revelation that his death will level a city the size of Waterdeep, and he’s almost ready to learn the spell himself, but he’s really not in the mood to explain how he died a _second time_ at the hands of someone that supposedly cares about him. 

“Astarion.”

No response. Seraphiel winces and reaches for his necklace to call upon the magic kept inside. His form dissipates into a soft mist and reappears some fifteen feet away. Seraphiel keeps his hand firm on his quarterstaff but doesn’t think to brandish it--not yet.

Astarion wobbles and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. Blood still stains his teeth. “And you can’t trust me either, isn’t that so?”

“You’re projecting.”

Astarion chokes out a laugh. “I’m what?”

“Projecting. Like a mirror image. Sending out something to distract from the more vulnerable thing in the center.”

“I’m not _vulnerable_ \--Hells, we’re all vulnerable. I can’t have you playing detective right now. Go piss off someone else by prying too hard, _darling_.”

They are all vulnerable, that’s true. Seraphiel isn’t taking the powers he woke up with for granted, even though he had, perhaps, been using his powers before that a bit too loosely. He should really quit now that there are marked effects from the abuse, even if those effects are strictly beneficial. They can’t be for long. Temptation always comes with a price.

“I’m not prying,” Seraphiel says. He drops his hand from his weapon and fiddles with the potion of invisibility chained to his hip. “I’m not even asking questions, Astarion. I’m simply informing you that this thing in our heads offered us something it thought we’d struggle to refuse.”

Astarion still doesn’t get it, if the rage that coils behind his eyes is any indication. “To even remotely suggest I want anything to do with that monster--”

“Astarion, listen to me.”

There’s a moment there where Seraphiel thinks he won’t. Maybe Astarion will lunge, maybe he’ll slip into the shadows again, maybe he’ll simply shoulder past and go back to camp. After a few seconds in tense silence, their eyes locked, Astarion licks his teeth of blood and tilts his chin up.

“I’m listening.”

“I’m telling you that I think Cazador still has hold over you.” Astarion bristles all over again. Seraphiel grumbles under his breath and ties his dark waves back into a ponytail to keep it out of his face. “Literally, Astarion. I think you saw that dream because the tadpole knows you have to obey. You’re still his spawn.”

Vulnerability crosses Astarion’s face so rarely, but there it is. The same faltering expression crossed him when he admitted to the vampire that attacked the boar, when he so casually called himself a monster like Seraphiel didn’t see the puncture wounds on his neck, the point of his teeth, the blood red of his eyes.

It’s not vulnerability, on second thought. It’s self-loathing.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes. And since we’re clearing a path to Baldur’s Gate it cannot be understated that he’s going to find out, so I don’t want you thinking you can just tell him to fuck off on your own.”

“I would _never_.”

Seraphiel figures a look will do. Astarion flashes a grin that bares his teeth and thank the gods for that, because maybe he hasn’t totally botched this, after all. He’s usually terribly unpersuasive.

“But we are going to slay him, if that’s something you want to do.”

Astarion motions them back to camp with a tilt of his head. “It’s something I _need_ to do. We just might need to find some way to shield me from his influence, lest he tell me to, oh, I don’t know, sink my teeth into your neck.”

“I’ll be sure to put on quite the show,” Seraphiel deadpans. “Do you think he’d like to hear the ecstasy your touch gives me?”

“Naughty,” Astarion purrs. His voice sinks to that familiar seduction, laden with a warmth that the ensuing touch abates. Astarion’s fingers are cool on his neck, but that touch dissipates just like all the previous ones.

“You’re afraid,” Seraphiel notes.

“What?”

“To touch me.”

“I _just_ bit you.”

“And you were projecting then, too--said I didn’t trust you, because you don’t trust yourself.”

Astarion’s gaze hardens. Fuck. Seraphiel pried too hard. One touchy subject at a time, even if it’s incredibly unfair to expect Seraphiel to stay silent about how obvious it is that Astarion treats touching him like touching broken glass, like he’s something Astarion has _already_ broken and is stilled cold trying to figure out how to put back together.

“You said it yourself. Cazador could step into this camp tonight and tell me to end you. I probably would.”

“That’s significantly more likely to be a problem when we get to Baldur’s Gate, not now.”

“And that makes any of this better _how_ , exactly?”

Seraphiel presses his tongue into his cheek. “You’ve already killed me once, Astarion. I know what it feels like to die at the hands of a man who’s lost control. Nothing’s changed between us. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you’re a glutton for punishment,” Astarion says. His voice sounds distant, closed off. Seraphiel has botched this, after all.

This conversation is over. There’s nothing more Seraphiel can say without running them in circles or making things worse; at the end of the day, everything he’s said is speculation. They can’t know what’s going to happen, but they can account for what they’re going to try to do about it.


	2. Cazador

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Astarion makes a deal with Cazador in exchange for true vampiredom. TW for dubcon/mind control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the nature of allowing a spawn requires a willing vampire lord, my assumption on the even remote possibility of this is that you'd have to make him super weak (kind of like the hag) to get him to make a deal. What better way to do that than sneak into his estate and drive a stake into his heart while he's sleeping?
> 
> There's probably a lot of logistical errors with that, lmao, including the fact that paralyzed vampires can't speak, but don't worry about it. Shh shh. If this ever becomes an option we'll revisit it then, but for now just pretend real hard that there was a super long cool fight, Cazador disappeared into mist, and then the party crept down into the crypt to make their threats.
> 
> Characters are vaguely at least level 11.

Astarion is noticeably different when he pulls away from Cazador, blood staining his teeth. Seraphiel has accounted for different and he expected some kind of power trip, but a power trip is only the beginning of what he’s received. Those eyes, piercing red and flooded with an overload of emotion, turn on the rest of their companions like a territorial beast.

“Leave us,” Astarion says. “I want to talk to my other half.”

 _Talking_ is not what Astarion wants to do from the way his chest is heaving, the way his eyes are flickering. It’s a dangerous thing, that. He hovers over a paralyzed Cazador for a few seconds too long before wrenching himself away.

Gale notices it too, from the look on his face. “Are we just… going to let this happen? We’re going to walk away? Leave the evil vampire lord to do his bidding?”

“It’s already happened. Leave.”

Seraphiel sighs. Wyll’s going to say something; he’s mulling over his words like he’s just as aware. He has to be. A monster hunter like him is so well-trained on the mannerisms of dangerous creatures, and Astarion has always been one. A spawn is not the same as a true vampire. This transformation is something else. Something immediate. Wyll might just turn his magic on Astarion if he doesn’t step in.

“I’ll be fine,” Seraphiel offers. Neither of his sound-minded companions believe him. It doesn’t matter. The logistics surrounding forcing Gale and Wyll out of the lavish crypt of a vampire lord to mull about the hallway in wait don’t matter, either. Wyll offers a fleeting threat to take Astarion down if something goes wrong. Gale sends a Message as if saying the words out loud would be too dangerous: _be careful._

Seraphiel curls his tongue and thinks, as he watches Astarion shift, that maybe they’re a few steps past the point of being careful. His vampire is trembling, rolling his head every now and again, tracing his tongue over his teeth and staring down at the weakened lord of the house. Catching a vampire unaware meant driving a stake through his sleeping form. Cazador is very much alive--as alive as a vampire can be. The stake paralyzes him, but he has his means to communicate. His eyes have followed every movement Seraphiel has made since Astarion called him his other half.

“I take it I cannot compel you,” Astarion says.

Cazador says nothing.

“That’s fine. Phi, darling, would you mind? I’d like to test something.”

“Would I mind… being your mindbroken puppet for your personal amusement?”

Seraphiel makes a point to word that particularly sharply, but Astarion scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ve learned by now that there is _nothing_ I could do that you wouldn’t thank me for later. It’s only a test.”

Seraphiel is, as Astarion has correctly guessed and tested by now, weak to the idea of choking on his own blood and being thoroughly dominated. One has to be in the adventuring profession, given how often he finds himself kissing the ground. What would a charm change?

“Trust me,” Astarion pleads.

Seraphiel can’t. He won’t. He knows Astarion so well by now. Giving in will mean something will change between them. Astarion will go too far somehow. He wants to prove his strength to Cazador, and if Seraphiel can’t say no that can only go worse than the time he _tried_ to say no.

The paralyzed vampire, clutching his chest in his coffin with nothing but the word of a bunch of chaotic scoundrels to promise he’ll survive, eyes them with a twinkle in his gaze.

“I love you,” Seraphiel says. He steps away with a slow shake of his head, popping the cork of a health potion to help assuage some of the lingering injuries. Getting here was a hell of a journey, painted in the corpses of vampire spawn Astarion knew by name. “I’m not sure if you know that, but there you go.”

“Seraphiel…”

The whispers of a vampire’s charm take hold. Seraphiel has never experienced that kind of mind wriggling; he’s prepared for the idea of it, but he’s unfamiliar with how to combat this. It must be easy to charm someone already hopelessly in love. A few clicks of the internal lock in Seraphiel’s mind is all it takes, and Astarion has a hold on him like he’s never had before.

Astarion curls his finger to beckon him and smiles like a cat before rewarding him with a kiss. It’s cool. It tastes of iron. This fight was hard-fought and hard won. They took every precaution. Seraphiel tried to spare as many lives as he could. Wyll didn’t. Astarion didn’t seem too phased either way.

Cazador is alive. And powerful. And those slow incisions dig their way into his skull.

_“Ask him to bite you. To enthrall you. You want to be his servant, don’t you?”_

Seraphiel complies. There is no other option. “Bite me.”

“Bite you--”

“You’re a full-blooded vampire, right? Which means you can turn me.”

Astarion furrows his brows. “After all the time and energy it took to hunt my captor, to be free of his mind control, you want the same fate?”

“It won’t be the same fate,” Seraphiel says. His eyes are wide, innocent. He doesn’t feel right. Astarion’s not the one who charmed him, is he? “You’ll make a fine master until I’m ready.”

 _“Good, good.”_ Cazador’s voice warms him as it echoes in his mind. Seraphiel’s felt this before, this pull. When he was dumb enough to try and connect with a mind flayer he’d nearly been eaten alive. The danger rings in the back of his skull like a warning, but it doesn’t stop him from fluffing up with pride. He’s been praised.

“I don’t like this.” Astarion turns to Cazador, helpless that he is, serene even with a stake driven through his heart. “How do I turn it off? He may be an overbearing pup at times, but I prefer that over… whatever I’ve done.”

 _“Do you hear him?”_ Cazador says. “ _He doesn’t want you. But, you know, I do. I’ll take care of you. Offer yourself to him and you’ll see._ ”

Seraphiel leans forward to kiss Astarion again, biting his own tongue to fill his mouth with the taste of iron. Astarion snaps away from him like he’s been shoved by magic and places his palms on the edge of Cazador’s sarcophagus, fury in his eyes.

“How do I turn this off? I won’t ask again.”

Cazador looks at Seraphiel with the warmest eyes. He’s so kind. He’ll take care of every problem. He’s the one Seraphiel needs right now. And he needs Seraphiel. Despite the perfection of his rest, the immaculate dark hair, the sharpness of his eyes, he needs help to be free. Seraphiel can do that. He has to.

 _“Come here,”_ Cazador says.

Seraphiel succumbs. He finds his way in the sarcophagus despite the discomfort but pauses after he’s done so. Something’s not right. Astarion can’t be happy with this.

“ _Astarion? He is good at finding comforts, as are you. You want me to taste you, don’t you?_ ”

Maybe? Yes? Yes, he does.

“Phi, _come here_.”

Astarion’s voice has the same darkness to it, with an added tremor Seraphiel recognizes as fear and not rage. He turns his head to apologize, but why would he? If he’s willing to go this far, to bare his neck for Astarion’s enemy, that can only mean Astarion is not his friend. Cazador is.

Astarion lunges, but too late; Seraphiel rips out the stake paralyzing the vampire lord and sinks into the familiar, pleasurable pain of a vampire’s bite. Seraphiel keens when Cazador leans forward, tearing aimlessly at his robes to pull him down.

“Oh, this one _sings_ ,” Cazador purrs. Astarion stills like he’s been petrified. Seraphiel floods with pride. “What a beautiful soul you’ve taken, Astarion. I think I’ll keep it as payment for your freedom.”

“I gave you your life, not his. Let him go.”

“I don’t know that I will. Come now, don’t be selfish. You’ve had quite a lot of fun already. You made your deal.”

Cazador’s lips close around the base of Seraphiel’s neck; the chill is familiar. Seraphiel hisses through his teeth.

“Do you think I care? What is the word of one monster to another? I’ll kill you. I--I _can_ kill you.”

“Then I’ll feast. On this one, first, since that would upset you the most.”

Astarion snaps his mouth shut.

“Thank you, Astarion, for your parting gift. I’ll take great care of him. I wonder what kind of poem would best suit his skin?”

Astarion swings the door open and calls for Gale. Cazador whispers a string of words in a language Seraphiel doesn’t understand, but he does understand the shriek of bats that answer the call.

“Fight, my dear,” Cazador says, “and I will give you everything you desire.”

#

Seraphiel comes to some time shortly after being blasted into the wall for the third time.

He clutches his head and swallows the taste of blood blooming in the back of his throat. “Agh. What…”

Astarion shoves past Gale, his eyes narrowed where Gale had looked incredibly relieved.

“You,” Astarion hisses. Seraphiel is only part of the way through processing where he is and the blood he’s soaked in when he’s dragged to his feet by an irate vampire.

“Me?”

That anger fades to the increasingly more familiar look of self-loathing. Trembling fingers, wide eyes, a sorrow in the way his shoulders are slumped. Seraphiel looks to Gale and Gale looks to Wyll, passing down a silent plea for them not to draw their weapons just yet.

Astarion clutches him tight. Seraphiel stumbles as he’s returned to his own two feet and then crushed by freezing cold hands--they don’t feel as cold as usual. Must be all the blood loss.

“I thought--” Astarion’s voice cracks. “I thought the thing I feared the most was losing myself to him again. And then I lost you.”

Is Cazador dead? He must be. Seraphiel doesn’t remember much after he hit the ground, so he must have been unconscious. Quite possibly dead. From all the blood, dead.

“Did I…?”

“Charm had a pretty tight hold on you,” Gale explains. “I tried to shake it and you hit the ground. Cazador decided to twist the knife.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t kick us out of the room,” Wyll says.

Seraphiel is quite sure that being charmed was inevitable. Cazador was paralyzed, not incapable. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been bitten, but if anything, the blood loss worked in his friends’ favor to knock him the hells out.

Seraphiel allows Wyll his anger anyways. “Let’s get out of here first and point fingers later.”

“No,” Wyll growls. “I don’t think I will. I think I know exactly who I’m pointing fingers at. Astarion has gone too far.”

Astarion is also still clinging to him, breathing against Seraphiel’s collarbone like he’s in desperate need of comforting. “I’m sorry. I love you. I should have said it days ago.”

The words are whispered just for him, soft and desperate. Seraphiel didn’t even think Astarion capable of sounding that sincere. He shifts to shield Astarion from the wrath of their companions and holds a hand out.

“I got charmed. That’s on me.”

“Because _Astarion_ wanted to make a deal.”

“No, _we_ as a _team_ had already decided that granting Astarion the powers of a true vampire would come before killing Cazador.”

Wyll sneers. “ _You_ decided that.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“He doesn’t care about you, Phi. You’re letting him walk all over you. What’s next, you let him bite and bury you so he can take the pretenses of your free will away?”

Seraphiel knows that’s untrue; he already begged for the bite under compulsion. Astarion recoiled at the thought. The fact that he’s not defending himself now is maybe the strongest indication of guilt. He wants to be called a monster. He wants to be sent off. All of that must be easier than being the hero.

“Gale,” Seraphiel says. “Tell me what you think.”

“I think you’re irresponsible.”

“True.”

Gale snorts. “I think you’re still a slave to your curiosities, but you’re not a slave to anything--or anyone--else. And you’re right. We did discuss the possibility of letting Astarion drink from Cazador, and we all knew that would more likely than not mean letting him live, since it must be a voluntary trade. It was going to be for his life.”

“And he’s dead anyway,” Seraphiel adds. “So that’s good enough, isn’t it?”

Wyll’s seething. Seraphiel can sympathize; he’s still bound to his bad deals and Astarion gets to be free. It’s a selfish thing, that rage. Selfish and loud enough to bleed through the tadpoles when Seraphiel focuses hard enough.

“Get out of my head,” Wyll snaps. “Astarion is the most dangerous threat I can conceive of because of you. A vampire lord immune to sunlight, with all manner of insane mind powers that made him formidable before he could _also_ turn into mist and create slaves.”

Astarion says nothing. He’s eerily silent, although he’s since slipped from Seraphiel’s side and has now maintained the usual distance. Seraphiel squints. It’s not his place to defend Astarion from this. These are valid concerns--and just because he trusts Astarion doesn’t mean he believes anyone else should.

“Well?” Seraphiel says.

“Well what?” Astarion retorts. “He’s right. I’m dangerous. If that scares him he can gladly scatter. I have no use for someone who can’t have a good time.”

“Astarion.”

Calling him by his name never nets anything. It hardly nets an acknowledgement, let alone a response.

“Don’t make me do this,” Wyll says.

Seraphiel is not an idiot. Wyll is an exceptional liar, better still at keeping himself straight-faced, but even then there are visible cracks in the armor. He’s past the breaking point. Seraphiel will never get to understand why, what it is that happened while he was downed and dead, not while everyone in this room is alive. Something is different. Seraphiel was right. Allowing this meant a line was crossed; someone, somewhere, went too far. Maybe that’s Wyll. Maybe that’s Astarion. It was probably Cazador, but it doesn’t matter now. Only one of these two men is leaving this room alive.

“Gale,” Seraphiel says.

“Yup.”

“You trust me?”

“You, sure.”

“Great.” Seraphiel points at Wyll and casts _Disintegrate_.


	3. Moonrise Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As someone who has tried (miserably) to talk to our good friend Shadowheart, I find it interesting that she shows interest in the Dark Justiciars for playthroughs where she’s my friend, and only silently approves of going to the Underdark otherwise. Seems like there’s something she doesn’t want the player to know, but surely she’ll be outed some time there. 
> 
> Anyway DJs are supposedly required to kill a priest of Selune in order to be granted membership. I’m sure Shadowheart has an interest. There’s a 0% chance my wizard bby has the ability to persuade her to talk about it.
> 
> Anyway next time will probably just be some cute Astarion stuff since that's what I feel like writing.

Seraphiel doesn’t think the Dark Justiciars are going to be a problem, and they’re not, it turns out. They’re dead. He delivers the news at camp to the companions who didn’t sift through the corpses and finds Shadowheart to be significantly twitchier than normal. The cold shoulder she’s given him is worse than the usual, and he is intimately familiar with the usual.

These days, Seraphiel’s routine has included checking up on Shadowheart actually never. It’s something of a miracle she stays at his camp, given how much she has to say (or no longer say) about the time he’s wasting. Truth is, Seraphiel isn’t sure if anything will get this thing out of his head, but he does know it’s fucking with him. After trusting the mind flayer and finding himself with more ability and the looming threat of it bursting his skull open, the thought of anything aside from divine intervention saving him from his situation seems nigh impossible. His current bet is Mystra, as he’s told Gale. The queen of the Weave surely has to know what magic is keeping him and his companions alive. They just need to get the Netherese magic out of Gale so she’ll look at him again, or so the theory goes.

All in all, there are options, and healers have failed them. It’s only a matter of time before Shadowheart decides that the options she wants to explore can be done without him. That decision may just be made today, from the look she’s giving him.

“Fine,” Seraphiel grumbles. When he lifts himself from the warmth of the fire to stand beside Shadowheart, he’s as outwardly uncomfortable as she is. One of those things is normal.

Shadowheart squints at him when he arrives. “I hear you found the Dark Justiciars… what’s left of them, anyway.”

“If you’d like to stop passive aggressively blaming me for every decision you didn’t want to have a hand in making and start telling me what your problem is, I’m listening.”

The Underdark is an unforgiving place. It’s a maze of dark tunnels, dangerous monsters, and creatures with money on their mind. Cynicism is a common trait of those who dwell in the Underdark--and a trait of Shadowheart, as well.

She most certainly doesn’t like him, but if this is where they part ways, it would be nice to know why.

“I’ll have you know that our priorities align well enough until we arrive at Baldur’s Gate,” Shadowheart says. She’s peering into his mind as always, reading him, and taking joy in doing so.

“I didn’t say anything about our priorities not aligning.”

“You’re only having this conversation with me to prepare for a departure I’m not yet thinking of taking. I have nothing to say to you.”

“You’re the one staring holes into the side of my head--I don’t have to do this.”

Seraphiel sees flashes he’s not ready to see when he turns to stalk back to bed. He’s greeted to untold horrors, flashes of death and destruction, githyanki faces and the box secured in Shadowheart’s hands before she finds herself trapped in the pod staring down at his inquisitive face.

He looks so much younger in her memory than he feels now. It’s been a week, maybe, but it feels like it’s been years.

“The githyanki you met at the bridge described a weapon,” she says. She holds out the box she’s been fiddling with since he’s known her and drops it in his hands, her eyes dark. Focused. She’s measuring him on his next movements. “This is that weapon.”

“It’s a box.”

She snatches it from him and scowls. “Boxes contain things. I don’t know what’s in this.”

“Then why do you have it? Why did they want it?”

Shadowheart’s disapproval is etched onto the curve of her lips, a tight frown. “All you need to know is that this box _must_ get to Baldur’s Gate. That makes us allies until then.”

The only reason she has to link this box to the Dark Justiciars is if she thinks they’d know something about it. Seraphiel presses his tongue into his cheek and wracks his brain for information. The Dark Justiciars are Shar’s priests, some dark order he knows abysmally little about. It’s not the kind of thing the average person would take interest in, and yet Shadowheart has taken more than just an interest. She’s upset she didn’t get to see them, didn’t lay eyes on their bones herself. And she thinks they know something about the box. Hopes, maybe. The latter looks worse.

“Shadowheart.”

“I have no more to say to you,” she says, tone clipped.

“You were so close to being honest with me for a minute there, you must know that.”

Her features flatten. “And?”

“And I’m giving you the opportunity to put all the pieces together in the interest of honesty before I go around making theories, because if you talked to me earlier I could have spoken to one of the corpses. But you didn’t.”

Shadowheart scowls. “You really do pry far too much. Has no one ever told you?”

“Practically everyone has,” Seraphiel says. “It’s not my most coveted trait.”

“Evidently.”

It doesn’t matter what she says beyond this point; she’s said enough. This box has something to do with Shar. The only reason Shadowheart would be so invested in the outcome of some obscure group of religious fanatics is if she not only trusts them, but trusts that they’ll trust her in return. She’s a cleric of Shar. That box must have something to do with the worship, but that script is unknown to him. Seraphiel has poured over a number of scripts, with and without translation books handy, so this is foreign in a way that makes it not of this plane.

“It’s an infernal puzzle box.”

Shadowheart raises a single brow, not both. “And what gives you that impression?”

“You know, I think I have no more to say to you, too. Good night.”

Seraphiel walks away to confer with Gale. His own training was largely with the most stunning wizard he’s ever known, but between him and Gale they must have the contacts necessary to find out what that thing is. He’ll just need to ask Astarion to steal it first.

#

Shadowheart’s mysterious box is only just slipped into Seraphiel’s hands when he feels the unmistakeable chill of being watched. Shadowheart is not particularly stealthy, but Pass Without a Trace makes her difficult to find in dark corners. The Underdark is full of dark corners. Darker, still, are dangerous halls crawling with duergar. Thankfully, the deep gnome that insisted so curtly that he wasn’t from the Underdark was in the Underdark, and Seraphiel was due for some hospitality.

“Can you do me a favor?”

Astarion’s fingers are ice cold as they trace Seraphiel’s palm. “After not yet being rewarded for the first one? Darling, you take my affections for granted. I should start asking for payment up front.”

“Right. Yeah. Payment. What do you want?”

“Oh, don’t be so serious. It’s a crime to extort you when you already scour hells and high water to please me.”

Seraphiel smirks. “Hells and running water, you mean?”

“You’ve made me brave rivers before, don’t be cute.”

To be fair, the mud mephits were more than worth the trip. Astarion was holed up on a rock for the better part of that fight, but thankfully the only injuries he had to show for the journey were acid burns. Ah, and there was the owlbear cave. There was the river down here near the mushroomfolk too, but although Seraphiel crossed it he had no problem waiting for Astarion to finish rolling his eyes and walk the long way around.

“It’s really hard to remember what rules you’re allowed to break. Which, speaking of…” Seraphiel tilts his head to offer his neck. Astarion straddles him; Seraphiel straightens his shoulders against the wall he’s leaned on. He scans his surroundings one last time before he finds himself inevitably distracted by the pale hand that slips into his robes.

“What else do you want from me? Before you get distracted.”

Oh, right. Shadowheart. The box. Astarion’s teeth press against his skin. He’s already distracted.

“I want you to look around. I think you were followed.”

“Followed?” Astarion laughs, his breath hot compared to the touch curled over Seraphiel’s ribcage. “Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to the two of us?”

“Because you stole something the person you lifted it off finds invaluable?”

Astarion clicks his tongue. Seraphiel slips the puzzlebox--if that’s what it is, of course--into his bag before he forgets about it. When Shadowheart steps out from half-crumbling stone and into the room they’re holed out in, Seraphiel is hardly surprised. Astarion seems to be.

“Oh, Shadowheart. I already took you for a voyeur, but do you _mind_?”

She ignores him and turns her attention to Seraphiel, eyes cold. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

“You never did trust me.”

“And I was right not to. Give it back.”

Seraphiel shrugs. Shadowheart won’t fight him here, and she likely never will. Alfira and Volo talk about how to best put his good deeds to paper like he’s done anything good beyond the want to save his own skin. Halsin thinks he’s unbearably kind--he’s not, he just happened to know the bear in captivity was the druid he was looking for. Once he _had_ Halsin, slaughtering the goblins was the only way forward.

“What’ll you do when I don’t?” Seraphiel asks. He tilts his head with a demonstrative curiosity, and truthfully he is a little curious. The only person he can think of that would slit his throat in his sleep is Lae’zel, and if Seraphiel gets to her first, then mentioning he lifted the item her people are looking for off of Shadowheart will easily win her favor. He could. He will, if it comes down to that.

Shadowheart prods him, but for what Seraphiel isn’t sure. The location of the box? It doesn’t matter if he gives it. She’ll never see it again. If she’s concerned that he’ll take it to Lae’zel, he doesn’t necessarily want to. Lae’zel will obviously demand they take it to her superiors, and he doesn’t really feel like doing that. He wants to know what’s inside. A _weapon_ , the githyanki said. Something important enough to have been worth all this secrecy.

Or perhaps it’s just because she’s a cleric of Shar.

Shadowheart visibly recoils when he thinks the name.

“I would never have judged you for that,” Seraphiel says. “After getting whipped half to death by that cleric of Loviatar I’m genuinely insulted you thought I’d hold some sort of prejudice.”

“Fond memories,” Astarion adds. Seraphiel has no doubt he’ll have to explain what silent conversation has been had, but there will be plenty of time to discuss it when they’re alone.

Preferably after sex, but the mood’s been thoroughly ruined. It usually is.

“I’ll give you until Baldur’s Gate to return what’s mine,” Shadowheart says.

Seraphiel snorts. “It’s sure as hell not yours, and you sure as hell don’t plan to return it, so why should I?”

“Until Baldur’s Gate,” she repeats. “I pray you see reason by then, because you do not want to make an enemy of me.”


	4. Night With Astarion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a take on some things--namely Gale's Weave thing which I'm super bitter I can't seem to trigger in EA (yet??), and some conversation I personally believe Astarion's going to have in preparation for Baldur's Gate. Cazador is scary, ok, and Astarion doesn't fuck around. Lil bit of Gale/PC here but it was an accident ok.
> 
> Bonus points lore: there's no world where Gale and Shadowheart stay allies for very long unless our cleric friend has a serious crisis of faith. It's not just Selune Shar has beef with, smh

Gale’s expression shifts quickly from fascination to concern when Seraphiel explains how he got Shadowheart’s box. There’s something else there, too, something darker, but before he can think to pry Gale places his hands over Seraphiel’s and leans forward.

“Shar, you say? Mistress of the Night, creator of the Shadow Weave?”

“Creator of the _what_?”

Gale’s fingers tighten. “There is something I’ve been meaning to show you. A long time ago, when I was foolish and in love with a goddess--”

“Oh, you’re dropping the storytime pretenses of an unrelated young man, I see.”

“Not the time, Phi.” Gale wrinkles his nose, but he doesn’t pull away. Closeness is not a foreign entity to the two of them, but something about this feels different. Intense.

“Right. Won’t happen again.”

The box rests on the stone table when Gale stands and insists Seraphiel follow, forgotten amongst the usual spellwork and various notes on mind flayers that have started to accompany research on the arcane. Seraphiel swipes the box, the pointed bits stinging against his skin before he pockets it and joins Gale in the center of the room. When they finally climb their way out of this tower and get to Baldur’s Gate, someone’s going to have to give them a damn estate. They’ve earned one. The mess of a space they’re borrowing is entirely unsafe and still subject to random patrol.

“Do you remember when I showed you what will inevitably be known as Gale’s Folly some time in the future?” Gale asks.

“I must have forgotten. Is Gale’s Folly the one where you ask me for my invaluable magic items--that I am more than happy to hand over, mind you--or the half-baked plan to expel the Netherese orb from your chest?”

Gale smiles, just a bit. It doesn’t feel like he means it. “Right. Silly me. I tell a lot of stories. I’m not used to somebody actually being present enough to recall them.”

“What is it, Gale? Tell me another story, if it’ll make it easier.”

He doesn’t. Seraphiel is led to the center of the room, treated to a fraying rug and the musky scent of death and decay as it lingers from cracking walls caked in dried blood. It’s hardly pleasant, but the disaster around them starts to dissipate as Gale takes careful hold of his palm and looks altogether too earnest.

“Perhaps you’ll remember some of the stories I tell to put you to sleep on the more difficult nights. About Mystra, about the Weave, about sharing that magic. I want to try, if only to make you understand what makes this such a beautiful thing, and what makes the goddess trying to destroy it so dangerous.”

Seraphiel nods. He’s studied the weave intimately, as all wizards have, but Gale knows the goddess of magic better than most. Better than any, maybe. He follows the instructions studiously, his eyes closed in concentration, and only thinks to open them when Gale exhales like he’s happened upon something beautiful.

Strings of blue glow in the space of this room, basking the room in soft light and the sound of the wind rustling through tall grass. All of Seraphiel’s senses are swept with something comforting, but with the unmistakable feeling of being watched. It’s not hostile, and not even necessarily uncomfortable, but there She is. Mystra, goddess of the Weave, present and aware.

Gale chuckles. “You’ve done it. How does it feel?”

Seaphiel reaches out, curling his fingers like he could touch the magic around him. His skin tingles. “It feels…”

It feels right, for a moment, but it feels just as wrong. The magic of the Weave pulls through him and Gale both, connecting them in a way that is breathlessly magical. This is more than what he can do by linking with the tadpoles. This is a constant, like they’re being threaded together. This is _romantic_.

Seraphiel pulls away abruptly, chest heaving. The Weave dissipates, returning the room to the cold, metallic, stale scene he’s familiar with. He doesn’t know how to explain himself, his sudden panic--but worse, his sudden desire for intimacy. Gale has to have felt it too.

It’s quite possible Gale came onto him just now, albeit accidentally. There is something in this room he can’t escape except by escaping it. Either way he needs Astarion.

“It feels sentimental,” Seraphiel offers. “I think… I should go. We can talk about it another time.”

#

There isn’t a lot of private space to be had when borrowing someone else’s dilapidated living quarters, especially when that someone else was slaughtered and their bodies piled in the corner of the room. The “private” study he and Gale are using to prepare spells and work on learning new ones is private only in the sense that everything else is private--it isn’t. If anyone strongly desired to peek through the cracks in the wall there would be no better time than when the room was glowing blue.

Seraphiel isn’t surprised to see Astarion’s gaze trained on him when he scans for his companions. Shadowheart’s awake, too, although he’s gotten used to the cold, deadened stare.

“Done playing with your toys?” Astarion asks.

Seraphiel tilts his head towards the door and leaves without a word. It’s dangerous to be out in duergar territory, but right now he needs to be somewhere else. They can find some quiet place, surely. There are so many dark corners.

Astarion, thankfully, is quick on his feet. The door shuts behind him at around the same time he feels the familiar touch of hands slipping across his waist.

“What, pray tell, do you think we’re going to get up to out here?”

Seraphiel swivels and raises one arm to pin Astarion to the door. He keeps his voice quiet, although with how hard he’s trembling he has to raise his voice a bit more than he’d like to be heard. “I think Gale just--not that he meant to but--turned me on.”

Astarion’s brow raises. “Thanks for sharing, but I’m afraid your wizard friend is far too unadventurous for my tastes. Unless you know something I don’t?”

“Your tastes? What are you talking about?”

“A threesome. What are _you_ talking about?”

“Not a threesome,” Seraphiel says. He returns his hands to his sides and curses. “Hells, Astarion, I’m not interested in sleeping around. There was just--there was magic, and it was wonderful, and I need you.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, darling, but here isn’t exactly the place for that.”

“Then find one.”

Astarion’s grin bares the points of his teeth. “That is _exactly_ what I mean when I say adventurous.”

Astarion has to bring out the wyvern poison to dispose of the duergar patrol on this particular evening, but he dips into his steadily growing stash of dangerous chemicals without complaint and drags his shortsword across the dwarf’s neck. Seraphiel holds the second and thinks nothing of leaving the corpses there. Clearing this tower to fight their way up and out of the Underdark has proven to be a difficult affair, but they don’t usually stay in one place for long. Backtracking has proved more dangerous than he expected, but Astarion’s more than prepared.

“There.” Astarion pushes at a door with more force than he seemed ready for. His voice breaks under the pressure, but he flashes a smile as if he hasn’t just come out of that looking like a wimp. “Privacy. Now, shall we--”

Seraphiel doesn’t have the patience to wait. He stumbles into the room, vaguely familiar from the night before, and kicks the door closes with far less effort. There’s a table with a few bowls, scraps of food they already picked through, and spoiled remains they left behind. Seraphiel knocks it all to the floor with a sweep of his hand and gets pinned to the table while he’s distracted by the need to make space.

“Not interested in Gale, then,” Astarion says. “Could have fooled me. Not that it matters.”

It does matter. Astarion’s masking his jealousy behind the usual charms but even if he _isn’t_ , even if he genuinely doesn’t care, Seraphiel does. “I’m not interested in anyone but you. I hope that, if nothing else, this relationship means more to you than a good time.”

Astarion says nothing; nothing is painful to think about for long. Seraphiel shifts to disrobe and matches the fervor of Astarion’s kiss. Cold hands slip over his own and tug at the robes with a few simple movements. Leather is altogether harder to remove, more intricate a thing than a piece of cloth that sinks to the floor and winds up in their hands to spread out on the table. Astarion traces the curve of Seraphiel’s neck with his fingers before tilting his chin up.

“Why don’t you prove to me how much you want it, hm? Impress me.”

Astarion offers a bottle of wine, a bottle of rum, and a bottle of olive oil before he turns away to slip off his clothes. Seraphiel eyes all three before chugging the rum and pouring some on his hands to clean them. A few cuts he doesn’t remember gathering--probably from climbing stone--emerge with a violent sting, but he shakes off the pain and reaches for the lube.

#

Seraphiel is long past spent when he catches Astarion slipping out of his grasp. His fingers tighten but catch onto nothing, just the remnants of scarred skin he hasn’t yet been given the chance to read.

“Are you leaving again?”

Astarion’s touch is almost too gentle a thing. He brushes the hair from Seraphiel’s forehead, pressed against his head from heat and sweat. This intimacy feels much better. The panic still rises, but not because he doesn’t want it. Because he _does_ , and yet Astarion is still moving away.

“I don’t know how to say this, so I suppose I just will.” Astarion shudders when he exhales, as if the room was cold enough to see his breath. “I can’t promise you anything, even if I want to--”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Astarion’s touch is cool enough to raise the hair on Seraphiel’s arms. He cups Seraphiel’s cheeks before dragging down past his neck, across his collarbone. “But that isn’t the point. There is nothing I can give you while Cazador lives. He will take everything from me as a punishment, and _you_ … I’m certain death will not be how he deals with you.”

What Seraphiel would give for silence. He’s exhausted, his eyes fluttering like sleep could take him at any moment. His limbs are sore--his back is _definitely_ sore. This table wasn’t built for what they did to it.

But he sits up despite the struggle and clutches his head to keep balance. “We’re only getting stronger, and we’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

Astarion chokes out a laugh. “That’s fine pillow talk, darling, but you don’t know the lengths he’ll go to. I do. He’s already sent one monster hunter after me while I was in the middle of nowhere. Once I’m in his domain, you have no idea what he’ll do to me--no, to _you_. This ends here, lest you become a person of interest.”

That fear is understandable, even if Seraphiel has no hope of understanding what it’s like. He considers, for a moment, reaching in through their connection and using the tadpole to understand a little better. He pulls away from that want and stumbles to his feet to collect his robes and get back to camp.

“I’m taking this seriously, Astarion. If that means we can’t be seen together at Baldur’s Gate, then I’ll do it.”

Astarion reaches forward and then snaps his hand back to his side. “You are too easily manipulated. I should put you on a leash so you don’t go running after strangers like that mongrel you adopted.”

Scratch is a good dog. Seraphiel wouldn’t necessarily mind a collar. That isn’t the point.

“I’m not running. Okay? Not from this, not from you. But I get it, I think. Or I’m trying to. Help me understand.”

“I hate that about you.” Astarion’s eyes look soft, maybe even a little wet. It’s too dark to tell. “Do yourself a favor and go back to acting like an overly-inquisitive scent hound. This warmth you put in my chest isn’t good for me.”

“Are you saying that isn’t why you like me?”

“I assure you that I managed to find you endearing in spite of your overbearing need to not just know everything, but get involved in everything.”

Seraphiel reaches for the wine, the remnants sloshing at the bottom of the bottle, and takes the final sip as he vaults off the table. Astarion grabs him by the collar and kisses him, a less than gentle demand to share the taste.

“So much for ‘this ends here.’”

“That’s what I get for trying to be selfless,” Astarion laments. “What good would it do to protect you? If he takes one look at you he’ll know regardless of what I try to do to stop it now.”

“What’s one more thing trying to kill me?” Seraphiel taps his temple and shoulders the door open, flashing a sheepish smile when Astarion grabs him by the shoulders to drag him back into the room. “I’ve had my fair share of scary conversations, but we can work on discretion.”

“I suppose if we’re dead regardless, I may as well enjoy you one more time,” Astarion says. Fangs press against Seraphiel’s neck, a question in need of answer.

“I’m going to pass out if you bite me again. I might just pass out regardless.”

“And?” Astarion purrs.

Seraphiel sighs. He presses his foot against the door to close it once again and swings his arms around Astarion’s neck, leaning forward to mingle their breaths.

“And you’re too weak to carry me, so I suppose we’re sleeping here.”

“Wonderful.”


	5. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a wizard succumbs to his dreams and finds comfort when he needs it most.
> 
> dream spoilers mostly (this is one I'm pretending is somewhere in act 2 bc you KNOW your perfect person is gonna have words for your love interest); like 90% backstory, 10% Astarion being Cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read somewhere on some BG3 forum, idk which, where someone mentioned that they wished companions asked more questions about the player character's background, given how often we inquire about theirs. It got me thinking. Also that one dream where the world burns and Astarion's having a fitful nightmare also got me thinking.
> 
> This is mostly the PC and his dream, with a little bit of Astarion hurt and comfort going on because I'm an indulgent fuck who wants to see Astarion be a (mostly) good boyfriend ok

Seraphiel knows better. Or, he’s supposed to. Temptation has already been explained to him many a time, and it’s come to him in many forms. This one is the most consistent.

He _knows_ what he’s looking at when he wakes up in his dreamscape. Dream--which is the only name he can safely give to the summer eladrin with the beautiful eyes, the brilliant red hair, the heart-melting smile--has a familiar presence by now. The world is soft, but Dream’s voice carries warm and gentle and very present, just like his hands are.

“You know Astarion is jealous of what we have, don’t you?” Dream asks. His eyes are wide, lips pulled into a pout that isn’t real even when accounting for the fact that none of it is real. It’s an obvious bait. Seraphiel falls willingly into the trap.

“Astarion got the shit end of the stick for dreams. Of course he’s jealous.”

Dream’s hands are a few shades warmer than his--not that that’s difficult to achieve. Seraphiel is more than pale, he’s been told. _Pallid_. Needs more sunlight. Even when exposed to the elements he’s spent most of his time crawling through dungeons and temples and even the Underdark. Dream’s skin is pale in the translucent sense, his cheeks blotched with uneven shades of red that somehow still manages to look perfect. He’s perfect.

“You know what I mean,” Dream says. “This intimacy. This world I will give you. But, you know…”

Seraphiel stiffens; Dream’s fingers trail along his jawline and cup his chin, tilting his head upward. They’re so often laying together that Seraphiel doesn’t think pulling away is even an option until it’s much too late and their lips are melded together.

Dream pulls away first, eyes lidded. “I think it’s _this_ he’s jealous of, specifically.”

Seraphiel goes through his motions and considers the repercussions later. Dream has him tight to his chest, his smile lax. Seraphiel twists to pin his perfect man to the grass beneath them and kiss him again. He’s tried resisting. It’s hard. Even now that he’s using the powers he’s been gifted as a necessity rather than the lax games he’d been playing with them before, he can’t help but wonder if what he considers _necessity_ is not as dire as he makes it seem. Excuses, maybe. He _wants_ to see this face again. A beautiful nightmare.

Dream’s fingers are warm against the nape of Seraphiel’s neck. Warm feels right before he remembers that Astarion’s hands are cold--thinking about it drags a disappointed frown out of the man beneath him.

“And maybe I’m jealous of him, a little bit.”

“You’re not going to punish me, are you? Because so help me, I _just_ thought I was making peace with keeping you in my skull.”

“No.” Dream sounds upset. He looks upset. He can’t be upset, he’s not _real_ , but his pains are Seraphiel’s pains. “How could I? He’s someone you can touch. I know how important that is to you.”

Dream kisses him as if emphasizing that, at least, they can touch like this. Seraphiel melts; this remnant of his past is lost to him, but here, he has him.

Don’t think the name. Dream is good enough, because if he goes back to his memories and all the temptation therein he will truly be lost here. He’ll sleep forever in some attempt to make good on all his mistakes. He’ll be able to save his lover this time.

Dream thumbs away his tears and says nothing of them, although his eyes tell the story of a shared sorrow. A lie.

“I’m here,” Dream whispers. Seraphiel kisses him, again and again and _again_ , groping at skin around and under those pale robes. He takes all he’s given and then more still. Dream gasps out gorgeous sounds from beneath him. He begs and pleas for Seraphiel’s touch, and only sometimes does Seraphiel see past the facade and catch the pleased little smile of a creature that has gotten everything it’s wanted--not because of sex, no, but because of all the power Seraphiel is accruing for the both of them.

“Ailas--”

Seraphiel breathes out the name and vaults out of his dream in his panic. He wakes up in a sweat, heaving, tear-stricken, and finds in his embarrassment that Astarion is sitting _right fucking there_ , head cocked curiously.

“Now that is a name I have not heard,” he says.

“For good fucking reason.”

Astarion blinks. Seraphiel does too; he reaches for an apology before he can be questioned further.

“Look, I--”

“Don’t,” Astarion says. There’s a softness there so rare of him, a camaraderie. “Unlike you, I’m not in the business of prying.”

“Maybe I want you to be.”

Astarion leans forward. He’s far enough away to not be a threat physically, or emotionally, but there is a thing in his head that reels at the thought regardless. Seraphiel flinches. Astarion leans back, disapproval etched on the furrow of his brows.

“Wet dreams again?” he asks flippantly. He’s terrible at sounding uninvested.

“I’m losing to it, Astarion,” Seraphiel chokes. He isn’t prepared to sound that broken, that _lost_ , but he hears it in his voice and watches it reflect in the confused--and then alarmed--look he receives for saying so. “This thing, it--it has his face. I’m haunted, I--”

He sobs just once before he catches himself and stares up at the waxing moon with the usual mask of indifference. Astarion says nothing. Just his presence is comforting enough.

“Ailas.” Seraphiel repeats the name slowly and rises, offering his hand to help Astarion to his feet. The suggestion is clear enough: be anywhere not here. Wyll and Gale sleep comfortably on the bedrolls beside them. Seraphiel needs to be somewhere alone to cope. His tent, maybe. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of that. He’s taken Astarion to bed already, after all.

“That is the name I heard,” Astarion says.

“Was the son of Titania, the Summer Queen. And my lover.”

Seraphiel’s throat catches trying to say more. He trips on his way into the tent and clutches his forehead. His temple’s throbbing, but that could be his own panic or the tadpole. It’s impossible to tell anymore.

“A son of _the_ fey queen, is that right?”

“It’s a long story.”

Astarion scoffs. Seraphiel continues--it’s wild, of course it’s wild. The whole thing is wild and unbelievable and sometimes Seraphiel is still convinced he made the whole thing up, a fever dream invoked by the chaotic fey. But, no. Seraphiel remembers the anguish better than most anything.

“I should stop.”

“No you damn well shouldn’t,” Astarion says. “Unless… of course, it’s too painful to discuss.”

It is. It hurts so bad. Seraphiel can’t make the wound stop bleeding--he’s already torn it open by giving in. He’s given himself too much space to make this mistake. He needs help. He needs Astarion. It was so much easier to talk about his dreams the first time, but every time he sees that freckled face again it gets harder to pretend he’s alright.

“Ailas, uhm--” Fuck. Never mind. He can’t do this. Tears well and threaten him all over again. Seraphiel blinks past the haze and collapses onto the bedroll with a shake of his head. “Got caught in Court drama. The end.”

“Phi…”

There’s so much more to say, but the words just won’t come. The complicated, messy history of him and the chaos that was Ailas is supposed to be behind him. He poured himself into his studies to forget. Alias’s death is his fault, because if he could just have been better, more present, more… _something_ , his eladrin would not have left for a Winter Court Archfey only to be slaughtered when the whimsy of such a chaotic creature saw it fit to get bored and deal with their clingy new lover the permanent way. What better way to _really_ dig into the Summer Court Queen than to dispose of one of her sons, after all?

 _All your enemies will bow to you_ , Dream whispers. It’s something Ailas has never said to him, but it’s said in his voice with perfect mimicry nonetheless. Astarion flinches; he was prodding around, then. Saw all of those memories in the fragmented flashes of a traumatized mind, felt the comforting pull of a promise that next time, he won’t be too weak to keep someone powerful from destroying what he cares about.

It’s a genuine surprise to feel the cool touch of Astarion’s hands over one of his. Seraphiel flinches, but not away, because it’s something he didn’t know he needed until he felt it.

“Do you hear it? It wants to help, this little… worm. Maybe we can work with it. Think of what we can do, of what we can _already_ do.”

Seraphiel takes a steadying breath, the first in a while. His vision had started to blacken around the edges, shallow breaths blurring the room. It’s starting to clear, now.

“Not the worm,” Seraphiel says. “The magic around it. I think. It doesn’t answer my questions.”

Astarion stares like he’s conflicted in some way, or maybe contemplating. Seraphiel isn’t sure. He _is_ sure this intimacy is probably suffocating for someone so bent on freedoms, but maybe that’s his past coloring his present.

“You look like you’re in need of comfort tonight. The non sexy kind. Shall I?”

Seraphiel nods. He’s not going to question something so _kind_ , so _genuine_ , so sickeningly soft. It might all slip through his fingers if he pushes too hard, and in truth he’s still exhausted. He wants to go back to sleep.

Astarion sits cross-legged like he’s going back to meditating, but he nestles Seraphiel in his lap and traces his fingers through loose, dark waves tangled from all the adventuring. Seraphiel sinks into Astarion’s touch like he could disappear, if he tried hard enough.

“Tell no one I did this for you,” Astarion says, voice level. “My reputation will never recover.”

“I’d have to tell them I needed this from you,” Seraphiel counters. “ _I’ll_ never recover.”

“Your reputation is already tarnished after all those noises you made at the party, darling. I don’t think there’s any coming back from that.”

“I do not pity those who judge me for pleasure.”

Astarion hums, a low and comforting rumble. “You are a delight.”

Seraphiel closes his eyes and gets comfortable. There are a few moments where Astarion’s fingers shake, his breathing quickens. Seraphiel’s due for prying a bit in return, so he does. The want for blood strikes strongest in their shared connection. Astarion’s _starving_. Seraphiel’s exposed neck is begging to be punctured.

And then it abates, albeit shakily. The feeling comes and goes in waves but Astarion seems to be holding his own well enough.

“Thank you,” Seraphiel says, his speech slurred from a haze of sleep that already seems to want to take him. Astarion does not reply--not while he’s awake, anyway. There’s no telling what happens after that, other than the cruel, bright daylight that pours into his tent come morning. Astarion left him at some point in the night and did not return.

Seraphiel smiles despite himself. He finds his way back to the campfire, started anew so they can make some sort of stew by the fire. Astarion smirks when they make eye contact and calls him over with no regard for the companions rousing in the daylight.

“Phi, darling. I believe you owe me a meal before breakfast time.”

“Please get a room,” Wyll groans. Astarion holds open the flap to his tent with an exaggerated bow and laughs under his breath when Wyll adds, with a grunt, “and keep it _down_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the party enjoys a regular evening at camp in Baldur's Gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Larian said something about having to commit to a party after the end of Act One and I'm super scared that means I won't be able to keep all my problematic favs  
> Sob  
> In any case Karlach is dope, and I want her in my party now. So I'm pretending I can already have her tag along.

Gale tells Seraphiel stories. Karlach tells him lies. Astarion tells him everything.

The love Seraphiel holds for his companions is wildly different but reciprocated much the same. Gale is his dearest friend, his closest confidant. He is the tempest that brings comfort at the distance it stays at, a soothing story told in whipping winds and the roll of thunder. He has so much to say, like the fall of rain against the window.

But stories are just so. They are wonderful for getting to sleep at night, for finding joy in hard times. Gale will always be a close friend and nothing more, because there is a tangible distance between them that makes true honesty difficult to discuss.

Karlach is a sister, blood shared and spilled with the tacit understanding that, differences aside, their end goals are the same. Her freedom from Zariel requires strength, and she doesn’t fear the tadpole. She’s been to the Hells. She’s escaped it. She isn’t going back. Seraphiel understands that a life like that requires a silvered tongue and a quick one, too, but for all he gives and inquires and presses to understand, he gets slivers of who she plans to be when she’s dealt with her problems. He can only hope she endeavors to keep him around, but even that is a mystery.

But Astarion, oh.

Astarion does both of those things--he tells stories, he lies. He is no different and yet everything about him is _different_. He hates being anything but himself. He’s free--or he’s going to be. 

And he loves to tell Seraphiel about it.

These days the evenings are a quiet affair. Gale cooks dinner in the kitchen, Karlach curls up with her crossbow and faces the door, and Astarion beckons Seraphiel to sit beside him so he can enjoy his meal, as well. Astarion enjoys drinking right by the fireplace, his skin warmed by his proximity and his lips stained with the taste of good wine.

“Hello, lover,” he purrs.

Astarion has learned by now that the truth is a wonderful thing, because Seraphiel is steadfast in the face of even the most awful revelations. Vampirism? Whatever. Being tracked down by the past in the form of increasingly more dangerous monster hunters? That’s still fine. Being hunted down by the _literal vampire_? The answer is to get a home so Cazador can’t be invited in. Astarion can gloat all of his new powers right under Cazador’s thumb, and they’re free of the vampire lord as long as the sun’s in the sky. All of Astarion’s problems can be sorted through with enough tooling. Seraphiel enjoys doing it. He enjoys doing it for everyone, but Astarion is the one who minds unloading those problems the least.

Tonight is a story touched by honesty, from the look on Astarion’s face. He disappears from view to trace kisses down and then up the expanse of Seraphiel’s neck.

“You’re going to go digging if I don’t tell you about it, aren’t you,” Astarion says. That’s good--he’s learning. Seraphiel stretches his limbs and gets comfortable.

“I mean, if you don’t want to tell me your clearly discriminatory background as a magistrate, I’m sure there are plenty enough records in the library.”

“No, no,” Astarion sighs. “I will never understand this thirst you have to _know_ everything. You don’t even do anything with it.”

“I tease you with it,” Seraphiel counters.

Astarion’s teeth bare against his skin. “You never tease for long, darling. You can’t take it.”

“Tell that to the cleric that whipped me half to death.”

“I am quite lucky you’re fond of such methods of torture,” Astarion says. He hesitates there for a moment, his fingers lingering over the back of Seraphiel’s hand.

“Enjoyed being judge, jury, and executioner when you were a magistrate, did you?”

“Does it bother you?”

Seraphiel scoffs. “No.”

“No, darling.” Astarion’s voice dips low. “Does it bother you to think I’ve imposed such pleasure on someone else?”

Oh. Seraphiel tilts his head to the door, where Karlach sits and rocks in her chair. Their eyes meet for a moment; Karlach winks and turns her attention back to the door.

“Last I checked, magistrates just sign the papers. They don’t deal the punishments themselves.” Seraphiel curls his fingers behind Astarion’s ear, pressing against the sensitive skin there with a smile. “But I’m more than happy to test out some of your judgments after dinner.”

“Speaking of…”

Astarion trails and sinks his teeth in, one arm wrapped around Seraphiel’s waist to bring them flush and the other twisting Seraphiel’s hand face-up to press the heels of their palms together. Pleasure rolls through with all of the embarrassment that comes from feeding in public; flushed cheeks, parted lips, a breathless gasp that has Astarion tightening his grip.

All too soon the feeling leaves. Astarion seals the wound with a kiss and drags his lips to the point of Seraphiel’s ear.

“I don’t like to revisit old scars, you know. Memory’s very hazy. Years of trauma will do that to you. But if I could tell you more about all the terrible things I’ve been responsible for, I’d _love_ to watch you fantasize about all the bad things I’d do to you. All the ways I’d make you beg, all the servitude I would demand of you, all the falsified crimes I’d keep adding onto the pile just to keep you on your knees.”

Seduction usually happens after dinner--after _Seraphiel’s_ dinner, because he needs a proper meal after being drained. Astarion clearly has no desire to wait.

“Of all the things you could say about your past, I would never expect _lawful_ in your moral alignment. Corrupt or otherwise.”

Astarion smiles when Seraphiel shifts to face him, baring his bloodied teeth when he does. “I’m still waiting to hear your admissions of guilt. I understand the fey have made you madly chaotic, but there must be something that made you so deliciously terrible.”

Seraphiel wants to say _you_ , but he holds his tongue. He has, as Karlach has so succinctly put it before, become a significantly worse person for knowing Astarion. He bends towards selfishness, towards personal joy over greater good. He bends towards creating chaos for the fun of it. All of that was in him before, but nowhere near the forefront of his priorities.

But Astarion is kinder than he used to be, too. He thinks about what might unfold when he does something, because he wants to be around to see what those repercussions are. There is a newborn curiosity, a want to ask questions and explore the world and all it has to offer. A lot of exploring means finding people and all the complexities therein. Sometimes there’s a crazy monster to fight. Sometimes all the talking makes new monsters to fight. That last one tends to be the best part.

“Just the fey,” Seraphiel says. “I’d have no interest in power if I didn’t need it to save my own skin. And everyone else’s. Mostly mine.”

“Don’t lie. You _love_ being responsible for others.”

That’s true. He’s been feeling that a lot less as of late--people tend to be unbearably ungrateful. That’s not new, but Seraphiel’s found he’s much less patient than he used to be. So many half-truths, so many hidden motives, so many decisions that feel right until he stumbles upon some crumpled letter in the chest of an abandoned house that somehow sheds light on an unrelated situation. It happens more often than he’d like to admit.

“Yeah, well. Maybe I have my hands full with trying to escape a literal vampire lord, an Archdevil of one of the Nine Hells, and a ticking time bomb in the chest of a wizard that probably needs help in the kitchen, with how long he’s taking.”

Seraphiel raises his voice to address Gale in the latter half of the sentence. Gale responds with a clipped, “If you’d stop tossing the food you hoard into any old chest, it would be _much_ easier to find things.”

“I thrive on chaos,” Seraphiel deadpans.

“You thrive on food, as a matter of fact.”

Seraphiel sighs with all the melodrama he can muster and slips from Astarion’s arms, offering a parting kiss that Astarion gleefully leans into.

“What’s your ruling on this dispute, Magister Astarion?” Seraphiel asks.

“Depends on what you have to offer me if I side with you.”

“Oh, I’d do just about _anything_.”

Astarion flicks his tongue over his teeth. He has the most dangerous smile, heart-melting that it is. “Anything, you say. I don’t think that’s specific enough.”

Seraphiel doesn’t like to beg. That’s not to say he’s never done so, but he isn’t going to do it here. Karlach will never let him live it down. She’d mock him for the next ten days at _least_.

“It’s a good thing that life is behind you,” Seraphiel says. His fingers trail along Astarion’s jaw before he pulls away. “Because I am no good at yielding to authority.”

Karlach whistles as he steps into the kitchen. “Got your hands full with that one.”

“Be grateful he leaves your past well enough alone,” Astarion sighs. The rest of the conversation tapers off as Seraphiel turns his attention to the crates he haphazardly tossed in the kitchen, all but overflowing with fruits and vegetables and the occasional raw meat that probably _should_ be separated from the zucchini, now that he’s looking at it.

The scent of spices promises a meal that’s mostly prepared, warm and savory and cooked in one large pot. Gale stirs with his brows furrowed, focused intently, and rambles to fill the silence between them as he always does.

“Ah, while you’re here. Did I ever tell you about that time a troll lumbered out of the undermountain in the Yawning Portal and the entire inn pacified him with a good, hearty meal and a jovial shanty?”

Seraphiel ties his hair loose against the nape of his neck, although doing so calls attention to the piercing marks of vampire fangs he hasn’t taken the time to clear up. His hair is dark and thick enough to mask most anything when he uses it as such, but it’s particularly hot in the kitchen tonight.

“No,” Seraphiel says, although he’s heard plenty enough similar stories. “Is that how you got the recipe for tonight?”

Gale’s eyes sparkle. “As a matter of fact, it is. You see, the troll had quite an interesting request. He _demanded_ spices that could only be found in the Underdark; shaved fire lichen.”

That explains the heat.

Gale’s story tapers off towards the end and trails to something soft, something serious. “Seraphiel.”

“Mmh.”

“I’m worried about what you’re choosing to ignore when it comes to Astarion. Who he was. Who he _is_.”

Seraphiel rolls his shoulders. “We talked about this, Gale. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“You are a _very_ dear friend to me. Don’t change the subject.”

Seraphiel tilts his head back to peer into the living room. Astarion is sprawled out on the rug by the fireplace, conversing quietly with Karlach with his lips pulled into a broad smile. Whatever conversation they’re having, it’s a pleasant one. Must be nice.

“What is your concern exactly?” Seraphiel asks. He may as well entertain it. He won’t be able to assuage any of those concerns, because Gale will probably be right, but ignoring it isn’t going to get them anywhere.

“With all the good I’ve seen you do, it’s instinctive. I don’t think the same can be said of Astarion.”

Seraphiel presses his tongue against his cheek. “If this is about the magister stuff, I don’t think it’s worth lamenting about the past. No one should be surprised if he has a less than stellar record.”

“That’s the _point_. He’s a less than stellar character. He was, he is, he will be. I have no doubt he will make concessions when it comes to you, but I fear you’re blinding yourself. You must know you’re blinding yourself. A corrupt magister? You’d have someone like that strung up and given the most ironic kind of justice.”

“He’s not a magister anymore.”

Gale gives him a look, the kind that has Seraphiel’s cheeks burning with shame. He knows better than to make an argument like that.

“It’s not the kind of thing to joke about, is all. If Astarion abused his powers once, and he talks about abusing powers now…”

Gale’s right. Seraphiel knows he’s right. Admitting it is the hardest part. They stand in silence until the food is properly organized and the meal is done. Seraphiel only manages to make his defense then.

“You are capable of leveling this entire city, Gale. I don’t want to hear about abuse of power. Everyone is capable of anything with enough desperation. I’ll handle it.” Seraphiel pauses, tilts his head, and furrows his brows. “No. Astarion will. He can handle himself well enough.”

Astarion’s smile falters when Seraphiel returns to the living room. He can’t be that visibly distraught, can he?

Or, no, he’s already digging. It’s a subtle thing, that connection. Astarion’s gotten very good at using it.

 _For what it’s worth, Gale is right_ , Astarion says. His voice sounds in the back of Seraphiel’s skull, a conversation just for him. _But you already knew that._

_I’ll worry about it when you cross the line and not before._

_Disappointing you will riddle me with guilt._

Seraphiel shrugs. _Don’t disappoint me, then._

“Your faith in me is exhausting,” Astarion groans aloud. He takes his seat at the table when Gale arrives--a formality and nothing more. Astarion eats for pleasure, not for sustenance. Seraphiel just likes to see him at the table, and Karlach likes the company.

Gale, inevitably, starts up another story. Astarion laments that it needs far more excitement. Karlach contributes her own, spinning a tale of the Blood War below that is _supposed_ to be a message against violence, although Astarion revels in it nonetheless. Tonight, just like every night, the problems of the day can be ignored like there aren’t going to be any irreconcilable differences.


	7. Tadpole Telepathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing with new powers or: Phone Sex featuring more feelings than sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be smut lmao. It is not. I don't make the rules.

Astarion’s voice comes telepathically in the most innocuous instance the first time.

_ “Does this thing let me talk to you?” _

Seraphiel turns his attention to Astarion with furrowed brows--he doesn’t get more than a few beats into reminding Astarion that using the powers they’re given  _ at all _ is something of a danger when he’s met with the kind of smile that makes scolding him impossible.

_ “It does. Can anyone else hear me?” _

_ “Stop playing with that,” _ Seraphiel says.  _ “At least for now.” _

Astarion does… for an hour. The trek back to Waukeen’s Rest to deal with the gnolls farther in the pass is a slow one, labored by the dream that haunted him the night before. Truthfully, hearing Astarion’s voice was something of a welcome distraction from the walk. He’s eerily quiet in the following hour.

Planning, it would seem.

_ “You know, I don’t think anyone can hear me but you,”  _ Astarion notes. Seraphiel stumbles and catches onto crumbling stone, much to his chagrin.

“Tired?” Wyll asks. It sounds more like an accusation than a question--he’s still bitter about the dream thing. Seraphiel’s  _ trying _ to stop. He’s going to stop. He shouldn’t be playing with things when he doesn’t know the price, even though he’s more than familiar with capriciousness and leaps of faith.

“I’ll be fine,” Seraphil assures. “I’ve got at least one more gnoll round up in me. They have to be around here somewhere. I can hear them cackling.”

“If you’re sure… gnolls are vicious things. I don’t want you stumbling like that when we’re teeth to teeth with them.”

_ “Yes.” _ Astarion’s voice, true to his belief, doesn’t stir Gale nor Wyll. They probably could hear him if they pried, but neither of them are the type to do so without reason.  _ “We all know how weak you are to sharp teeth, darling. You want to be prey.” _

Seraphiel shoots Astarion a glare. Astarion’s grin is unrestrained.

_ “Don’t look at me. Wyll’s the one who’s worried about you. I already know how excited you get when you think of being eaten alive.” _

“On second thought, maybe the gnolls can wait another night.” Seraphiel rolls his shoulders. He’s burning up, he has to be. The heat’s radiating off his cheeks so hard he can feel it. “I must be tired, or… or something. I don’t know.”

Absolutely fantastic. He can’t even put together a sentence. At least that supports a sickness diagnosis.

Gale’s knuckles are cool when they brush against Seraphiel’s forehead, splitting his bangs. “You certainly don’t look good. We should head back. Are you alright to walk to camp?”

_ “You cheeky little pup. Calling it early because a couple of pretty words got you hot? How easy.” _

_ “Astarion,”  _ Seraphiel says.  _ “Are you going to stop?” _

_ “Absolutely not. You are the most exquisite kind of entertainment. I’ll be at this all evening.” _

Seraphiel could stop him. He knows how. The word  _ no _ sits on his tongue--they have work to do. The gnolls aren’t going to kill themselves, and the damage they’ve done suggests a dangerous number of them. Of course, if Astarion had his way they’d slip straight down into the Underdark and think nothing of the gnolls. If Astarion had his way they also would never have found the tiefling that needed a hand dealing with her devil-bound hunters, though, so Seraphiel is comfortable getting his way.

Except that he’s not, quite.

“Phi,” Gale says.

Seraphiel blinks. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine. Need some rest though, definitely.”

Gale offers his shoulder. Seraphiel takes it. Wyll leads the way and Astarion lingers behind, chiming telepathically from time to time with a skip in his step. He’s enjoying the connection quite a bit, and from the look Gale is casting him, quite a bit too much.

“You’re chipper.”

Astarion’s smile lights up his whole face. Seraphiel can’t bear to toss his head back and look at it, so he keeps his eyes on the ground and steels himself for the rest of the walk to camp.

“Hm? Oh. I found a nice bottle of wine in that toll house, and I’m going to thoroughly enjoy something that doesn’t taste like vinegar tonight.”

“You didn’t happen to scavenge for something  _ healthy _ so I can get Phi back on his feet, perchance?”

Astarion scoffs. “Wobbling like he’s on the brink of death is his element. He’ll be right as rain by tomorrow morning.”

_ “Unless,” _ Astarion adds, just for him,  _ “you want to find a nice, quiet place for me to take you. You can escape what I’m doing to you in public at the cost of your neck. What do you say?” _

Seraphiel coughs. Gale leans forward to inspect him more thoroughly, using the pad of his thumb to drag down the skin beneath his eyes.

_ “I’ll take both,” _ Seraphiel replies. He loses what Gale says during the exchange, in part because Astarion’s eyes brighten with unbridled joy.

_ “Oh, you are trouble.” _

_ “Pot, kettle.” _

_ “You think this is trouble? Just you wait.” _

Astarion plans to make good on that threat, Seraphiel is sure. He swallows, leans into Gale’s shoulder for some semblance of structure, and tunes Astarion out with thoughts of food and, eventually, a mapped out plan of what spells he’ll need to take for the journey tomorrow.

#

Astarion’s telepathy picks back up around dinner time. Gale stays at a suggestive distance, implying heavily as he knows that he’ll cross the table at a moment’s notice if it’s requested of him. He’s such a nice guy. Attentive, when he wants to be. A good friend.

_ “Friend,” _ Astarion’s voice rings.  _ “Sure, that’s what you feel about  _ him,  _ but is that what he feels about you? Shall I look behind the curtain? Might be fun.” _

Seraphiel’s fingers curl. _ “Astarion.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Stop.” _

_ “Say please,” _ Astarion purrs. Seraphiel locks his jaw and says nothing instead, although he offers a flash of his eyes to beckon the chase. Astarion doesn’t like to chase, usually. He likes to play, but he’s been playing all day. It’s Seraphiel’s turn.

For as long as he can take it.

Seraphiel shifts in his chair and pulls his lips into a smile when food is set in front of him. Their makeshift table is an old wooden chest dragged from the goblin camp, their chairs a mishmash of small stools and crates. The stone building across the river is just far enough removed from the surrounding forest to feel atmospheric, but that’s hardly what Seraphiel cares about.

“Please,” Seraphiel exhales. He leans into the whine and drags his gaze from Astarion to Gale, passing Wyll and Lae’zel on the way. He knows how he sounds. “Gale, I’m starved.”

_ “You’re very lucky I’m not the jealous type.” _

_ “Jealous? You can’t possibly think you have the right. You wouldn’t even stay the night,” _ Seraphiel retorts.

_ “Don’t kill the mood, love. I spent so very long marinating my meal and I intend to savor every bite.” _

Seraphiel steels himself from the hurt he wants to share, the curiosity he wants to express, the promises he wants to make. There’s dinner at the table and a meal to eat. The last thing he wants to do is worry his friends while he’s lost in his own head; gods forbid they feel the need to poke around.

“You’re still looking warm,” Wyll notes. He squints with a skepticism while Seraphiel does his best not to shrink his shoulders and give his embarrassment away. Astarion sets his supposedly nice bottle of wine on the table to announce his meal for the night and then pours it, religiously, into his glass.

_ “Perhaps we shouldn’t. If my restraint is still a sore spot--” _

“Astarion.” Seraphiel interrupts the honestly unusual display of softness. It’s not for them, that. Astarion is the one who put the wall up. Seraphiel has no intention of giving more than he’ll get, not again. He won’t make that mistake again. His new nightmares love to remind him of why he has his own walls, his own secrets.

“Yes, darling?”

“Are you eating tonight?”

Astarion’s smile is a sharp thing, but his eyes don’t quite share the sentiment. “You? Sure. Not this.”

“You can’t feed on a sick man,” Wyll says. He coddles the bowl set in front of him like the warmth from the stew is a much needed comfort; his eyes  _ do _ look cold. “Stick to your rat diet, at least for tonight.”

“I’ll gladly feast on you instead, if you’re able.”

“No.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “Lucky for you, I enjoy my current menu.”

Wyll’s voice is soft, at first, tentative. It slips through the connection with a hesitancy but not an uncertainty.  _ “If you two are going to make eyes at the table, at least don’t be mind fucking, too. The door’s always open.” _

_ “It was more like mind fighting,” _ Seraphiel supplies. He flinches when Astarion’s voice joins in aloud.

“He does so love to tease. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to enjoy my  _ rat diet _ away from the table.”

_ “You can have my neck either way,” _ Seraphiel says. Wyll turns his attention to the meal, which is only likely to mean he’s stopped listening. It doesn’t matter. He was probably peering in on Astarion in the first place.

_ “See you then.” _ Astarion’s voice rumbles low and has Seraphiel’s bones singing with want.

#

The usual quiet place echoes, Seraphiel has discovered. They meet there regardless, but Seraphiel motions them up into the rocky cliff face to garner a bit more distance from his companions this time around.

“That is  _ awful _ .”

Astarion blinks rapidly, smile coy. “That’s not what you were thinking.”

“I was thinking that you are shameless.”

“I’m not the one who felt the need to moan out in ecstacy at the table, darling.”

Seraphiel winds his way to the cliff and pauses to look out at the tents below. The hollowed out building that served their first night together is a healthy distance from them, as are his companions. “I already know I’m shameless.”

Astarion closes the distance first--he often does. His hands trace the curve of Seraphiel’s shoulders, slow and purposeful. Seduction is his element, and he thrives here. Seraphiel does not, but he certainly enjoys being treated to it.

“I did peek at Gale. You didn’t tell me it would be difficult.”

“Most wizards would see thought intrusion as something of a death sentence. Our minds are all we have. His defenses are always up.”

“Yours aren’t.”

They probably should be. Opening his mind this freely to Astarion means having an open mind to all manner of intrusions. Still, it’s nice to be spoiled. Seraphiel likes the attention. It’s why he gets into trouble in the first place.

Astarion’s not in his head right now, though. He’s here, his fingers brushing along the sleeves of Seraphiel’s robe.

“Mine aren’t,” Seraphiel agrees. “Not with you.”

“Oh, so touching.”

“Your sarcasm is unappreciated.”

Astarion clutches his chest in the most obvious display of mock hurt. “You wound me. After all the trouble I just went to spying on my competition, I thought you’d be relieved to hear he’s not interested in you.”

Seraphiel kisses Astarion and speaks telepathically as he does so.  _ “Or maybe he just projected what he wanted you to see. Maybe we’ve already had a tryst, have you considered that?” _

“I have,” Astarion murmurs against his lips. There’s a vulnerability there Seraphiel isn’t expecting, but it’s gone before he can touch on it, replaced with a coy smile and a raised brow. “But I am invariably better in bed, or you wouldn’t have come back to me.”

_ “You’re also funnier. _ ”

“Am I, now?”

Seraphiel traces his kisses down Astarion’s neck.  _ “Sexier. _ ”

“That’s obvious.” Astarion dips a hand into Seraphiel’s robes, past the nape of his neck. His fingers fan out between the shoulder blades to draw him closer.

Astarion  _ is _ special, although Seraphiel isn’t sure how to say so. He’s the only person who’s made Seraphiel yearn for touch again, focused as he usually is on his studies. Astarion is, if nothing else, very good at seduction.

It’s a shame it’s all just a game to him.

Astarion’s breath beats against Seraphiel’s collarbone. His eyes flicker upward as if he’s been spoken to--ah. Did Seraphiel think that out loud?

“If you were just a game, I’d already have won it. What reason would there be to keep playing?”

Seraphiel tilts his head. “Fun.”

Cold is a familiar sensation, but this time the cold hits as a result of being pulled away from. Astarion’s eyes linger on the curve of Seraphiel’s neck for a beat too long before he meets his gaze.

“I was looking forward to your taste, but I don’t enjoy the bitterness of regret.”

“I’m not saying I  _ regret _ \--”

“Oh no,” Astarion interrupts. “ _ I  _ am.”

Give no more than you get, Seraphiel reminds himself. He straightens his shoulders and shrugs off the sharp pain in his chest. Pain was the point of that statement, so he ignores it the best he can. “I’m headed back, then, if I’m not to your tastes tonight.”

“You do that.”

How quickly things fall apart. Seraphiel hesitates, but ultimately he leaves without another word. Astarion follows his movements back down the cliff with his gaze, a piercing red that cuts through the otherwise calm, quiet night. 

Seraphiel keeps up the front of indifference even despite the fact that Wyll more than definitely noticed the absence of fang marks on his neck on this particular evening. That doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t receive them, of course. Astarion likes the neck because it’s so public a place. He gets to say  _ this one’s mine _ without any kind of commitment.

Seraphiel  _ is _ bitter, on second thought. He swallows it and finds his way to Gale for comfort.

“Can you tell me a story?” he asks. It doesn’t matter how obviously that comes off as needing a distraction. He’s alone. He’s early. All of that should make the conclusions easy enough to draw.

Gale motions him closer; he’s bent over a map of the area on this particular evening; a light spell’s been cast on his staff laid out on the table.

“Sure. Grab a seat. Have you put any thought into how you want to handle the gnolls? If you’re not feeling well, you can always stay here tomorrow.”

“I might,” Seraphiel supplies. He won’t. He can’t. He needs to go out there so he can think about the next problem to solve, the newest puzzle in front of him. If he doesn’t he'll be stuck thinking about Astarion.

Gale fills the silence, comforting as it may have been, with a tale of Mystra. He speaks softly of his goddess until Seraphiel is slumped up against Gale’s shoulder, eyes heavy.

“Ah. Astarion’s returned. Shall we call it a night?”

Seraphiel nods slowly and rises to his feet. The familiar wriggle of telepathy worms its way into his mind; he could say no. He could shut it out. He doesn’t.

“ _ Stay in camp tomorrow. I know how you can make such a sour evening up to me. _ ”

Seraphiel  _ should _ say no. He makes his way to his tent and offers his good night to Gale, although he pauses to find his vampire in the dark.

Astarion’s smile is impossible to refuse. Hells.

_ “I’m listening.” _

_ “I want to try something. Levitation requires concentration, correct?” _

_ “Yes, and?” _

_ “And I want to see whether or not you can keep us afloat when I fuck you until you forget you’re mad at me.” _

Seraphiel twitches. There it is, that need, coiling in the pit of his gut. He exhales; doing so draws Gale’s attention.

Seraphiel forces a smile before Gale can offer his concerns. “I may take you up on that offer to stay in bed tomorrow. Don’t wait up.”

“ _ Perfect," _ Astarion purrs. 


End file.
